Ink
by Ellie277
Summary: Ashby Charles has been mentally unstable all her life. She knows that she isn't fully human, but what is she? Could a groundbraeking discovery lead her to find out why she is the way she is? Read to find out...
1. Chapter 1

The afternoon sunlight streamed through the high window, making a pattern on my bed. I watched the dust motes twirl through the air, completely oblivious to gravity. My geometry homework lay in front of my, a bunch of purple letters scrawled over my page. It didn't make sense to me, though I had been the one to write it.

I clenched my eyes shut as I racked my brain for the simple facts. _My name is Ashby Charles, I'm thirteen years old, my mother is Lumi Retchclaw, she is dead, she died four days ago, the doctors say it was from and unknown illness, I don't believe them._

I have suffered from mental instability since I was born. Sometimes, it can make things difficult, but my Psychologist says that making myself remember what is going on in my life can help. I start with the simplest things and ease into the complicated ones, so my brain doesn't get frazzled. So now I lie cold and alone in this empty house, with nothing to do but think.

I wake up to see my tiny room flooded with moonlight. The floorboards under my back are cold and hard, but I continue to lie there.

I don't know what I'm going to do. Nobody has come to see me since my mother's death, and I don't think anyone will.

My mother was a beautiful woman, with jet black curls and wide eyes that would make men go all mushy and women burn with envy. I never knew my father, but I do know that he wasn't human.

My mother used to tell me that he had tricked her, but she didn't regret it, as it let her have the most special daughter on earth. He was dark and beautiful, with a wolfish smile. He looked like he had emerged from the depths of hell, my mother would tell me.

_Well, he couldn't have been that attractive, _I muse. I must have got my looks from him, because they _certainly_ weren't from my mother. I was absolutely not the type of person you would call beautiful. I had a frizzy mop of dark grey hair (Yes, Dark grey! Weird, right?), skin as pale as fresh snow and eyes the colour of ink.

Maybe I didn't get my looks from him either, though I know my eyes must be identical to his. No natural being could have eyes like mine.

That's exactly what my problem is, though. I'm not a natural being. But if I'm not a human, then what am I?


	2. Chapter 2

As I sit up, my muscles scream in protest. I haven't moved for the last twenty four hours at least. In fact, I've been lying on the hardwood floor so long that a thin layer of dust has settled over me.

I sway when I get to my feet and I brace myself against a rickety chest of drawers. My head spins slowly as I stumble out into the hallway.

It's time for action. I can't just lie around and mope forever. _What do I do now? _ I think to myself. My dilapidated mental condition makes it hard to think straight, but I eventually come to a conclusion. Nobody will help me here. They don't care about me, and they don't care what I do. I'll leave this place in search of somebody who does care. If I don't find them, well, at least I've gotten out of this place.

I lean against the wall and wait for my dizziness to deplete. When it disappears, I begin to wander down the thin corridor, heading towards the basement door.

It creaks open with a puff of dust. I light a small tallow candle before making my way down the ancient stone steps. Their edges are worn from generations of feet and use. I bite back a squeal of disgust when I see a scraggy brown rat dash across the floor, before disappearing into a small hole in the wall.

As I make my way over to the opposite wall, a gleam catches my eye. I turn my head and thrust my candle out in front of me.

In the corner of the room lies a sheathed sword. I waltz over to examine it. The hilt is rose gold with intricate carvings etched into it. Right at the tip of the hilt is a detailed lily carving. Whoever had created this must have been very talented. I carefully place my candle on the ground and reach out for the sword. It is surprisingly light for such a large weapon. Holding it at eye level, I slide it out of its sheath. The blade is a stunningly crisp white, unmarked and unscathed. I dreamily run a finger down the flat side of the blade and am surprised when it is cold. I thought it would have been ivory, but no, it was a dead white metal.

I balanced the blade on my hand, testing its weight. It was perfectly even. The craftsman must have been very talented indeed. I return the beautiful weapon to its sheath before strapping it around my waist. _You never know, you might need it someday _I tell myself as I bend to pick up the candle.

My hand fumbles against the damp wall as I look for something. I find the loose brick, and wobble it out of the wall. Inside is a small velvet pouch, and I snatch it out quickly before replacing the brick.

It's eerily silent in the basement, and I shiver, but not because of the cold. I take the stone steps two at a time, pouch in one hand, candle in the other, and the sword bouncing at my hip. When I reach the top of the stairs I leap into the hallway and slam the basement door shut behind me. _ I've had enough of that place _I tell myself.

I traipse down the corridor and into the tiny but light-filled kitchen. Dumping the coin pouch on the table I notice a spoon on the bench.

My candle still in hand, I lean over to look at it. _Why is this here? I haven't used a spoon in ages _I wonder.

The reality hits me like a lightning bolt to the face. My mother had made herself a herbal tea before going out the night she died. I peer closer and notice a ring of tea leaves on the inside of the spoon.

Tears swim in my eyes as I pick up the spoon in my hand, twirling it around before snuffing the candle with it.

As I open the velvet pouch, its contents spill over the table. Fourteen silver pieces overlap each other, reflecting the morning sunshine. _Only this much? _ I muse. My mother had told me that the pouch had contained her life savings, but I had thought it would be more than this! This could only buy me a week or so worth of food!

I clench the silver in my fist then let them fall, one by one, into the pouch. I tie the pouch to my belt near my sword.

I push myself up, using the table for support, and waltz over to the back door.

Pulling my leather jacket tightly around myself, I swing open the door and step out into my new adventure.


	3. Chapter 3

The emerald grass flattens under my boots, before springing back up again as if nothing had touched it. A few fluffy clouds dot the azure sky and the sun warms the ground. I take a long, deep breath of the fresh spring air, relishing its warmth.

I don't think I have ever been this content. I could lie down on the grass right now and never move again. A gentle breeze lifts my dark, ashy hair as I stroll up the hill.

It is large, but not steep, and the ground is scattered with wild flowers in every colour imaginable. I have lived here all my life, but not until now do I realise how truly beautiful the earth is. I have never been outside the French countryside, with its easy, rolling hills and clean air. The hills continue to roll on as far as I can see, and it's hard to believe that the world is made up of anything else. I've heard of big cities and oceans, but they must be far away from here.

As I reach the crest of the hill, I decide that it must be time for a rest. Scanning the landscape, I see a tall tree next to a clear stream. As I trudge up to the tree, the bottle green leaves rustle gently in the breeze, light dancing over their smooth surfaces.

I shrug off my coat and drop it at the base of the tree before walking over to the stream. I kneel next to the bank and let my hand be submerged in its cool flow. The water bubbles over smooth pebbles in every shade of grey. The stream is actually more of a brook; I can touch the opposite bank from where I am kneeling.

I scoop up some water in my palms and sip it gratefully. It tastes clear and crisp, and seems to cleanse my body. I sit by the brook a little longer, letting the sun heat the back of my neck.

As I stand, I take another deep breath, consuming the air. I grow puzzled when I smell something unusual. I wrinkle my nose, trying to figure it out. It kind of smells like sweet pastry mixed with some sort of exotic flower.

I whirl round, trying to identify where the unusual scent came from and freeze in my tracks. My coat, which was lying in a heap at the base of the tree, was now clasped in the fist of a tall man.

His skin shines like polished ebony and he has short black hair that stands up in spikes over his head. He obviously hasn't figured out that I have noticed him yet and is examining my coat thoroughly. All of a sudden, his body tenses and his chocolate brown eyes trail toward me.

A surprised, "yyyzyzyzzzrrr…" escapes from his lips and he ducks around the other side of the tree. I take chase, making myself dizzy as I ran around and around the tree, but never catch him. Suddenly, I dodge back in the other direction and find myself face to face with him. He stops just in time. He is now standing only a few inches away. He looks into my eyes with some emotion I cannot identify before taking a small step away. I draw my sword from its sheath and hold it up, its tip brushing his dark throat. I don't actually know how to use a sword, but I hope that this gesture will scare him off. He draws in a deep breath before composing himself and sliding his large hands into the pockets of his black leather jeans.

"Put it down, junior," He says in such a tone that I obey. Something about him tolls me that my façade isn't fooling him. I lower my blade and take a step back to examine him. He looks about nineteen years old. He has a tall, thin build, but at the same time, looks incredibly strong. His leather jeans have many tears in them. He wears a loose, cream coloured peasant shirt covered by a stunningly tight vest. It is adorned with silver and black decorative stitching and clings tight to his muscled chest, while the baggy sleeves of his shirt conceal his toned arms. Decorative chains and adornments hang loosely around his neck but none make a sound when he moves. Around his waist is a thick belt with a long sword and several deadly looking daggers hanging from it. A black gem winks from the top of a gnarled looking staff that he holds loosely in his right hand, while his left hand clasps my coat. On his feet is a pair of black combat boots with thick soles and decorative chains dangling from them.

We stand there for a while, just looking at each other before I blurt, "Who are you?"

He looks at me, as if considering whether I am to be trusted with such information before replying, "I have many names, but my most common is Ceylon."

He has a thick accent, though I don't know what it is, and his voice is tinted with cool amusement. I have no idea where he could have come from, as I had never seen anyone with skin as dark as his. His whole appearance is stunning.

"What are you doing? Why are you following me? And what the hell are you doing with my coat?" I ask in confusion. A small smile plays over his lips as he considers my questions.

"All legitimate questions. What am I doing? Well, that is a long story for another day. Why am I following you? Also a long story that I might tell you. And what am I doing with your coat? That is for me to know and you to find out." He answers loftily.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" I ask exasperated. He sighs and his expression turns more serious.

"Look, I know this sounds dumb, but I need you to trust me. I know I haven't made the best first impression, But it's important that you listen to me and take it in. And it is even more important that you do what I say. I may not look it, but I am extraordinarily powerful," explains Ceylon.

I don't know why, but I decide to trust him. What else is there to do? I have nothing to lose and nothing better to do. I snatch my coat from him and put it around my shoulders before sitting on the grass with a thump.

I look at him expectantly before remarking, "You have a lot of explaining to do."

Amusement sparkles in his eyes as he sits down on the grass across from me, getting ready for a long speech.


	4. Chapter 4

Ceylon sits across from me, elegantly folding his legs and templing his long fingers. He is utterly silent; the only sound is the rustling of the leaves and the steady bubbling of the brook. His twisted staff lies on the grass beside him, pointing towards me. A tiny smile plays over his ebony lips and twinkles in his dark eyes. I stare at the ground, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I tuck a lock of grey hair behind my ear and look at him expectantly.

He takes a deep breath before beginning, "I will only tell you what you need to know, for my story is quite…complex." I settled myself against the trunk of the tree, letting the suns mid-day rays warm me.

"My name is Ceylon, as you know, and I am a warlock," He pauses, letting me take it in.

I sit in shocked silence and he continues, "I am three hundred years old, and have been trained in the arts of magic. I would love to tell you about magic, but that can wait. I have previously worked for the Mauritius, but am no longer employed by them. I was born in F'Dérik in Mauritania, but have no real home. I speak thirty different languages as have been all over the world, and further. You may begin your questions," he finished, sitting back on his elbows.

I stare at him, wide eyed and ask, "A…warlock? Like…Harry Potter…or Merlin?"

Ceylon sits up with a start and snorts in disgust, "Absolutely not! Firstly, Harry Potter is a wizard and a fictional character. Wizards do not exist! They make things happen out of nothing, and all that nonsense! Everything has to come from somewhere, even magic! And secondly, Merlin was a Sorcerer, which is very different to a warlock. Sorcerers make potions, like an alchemist, but they use them to alter things. They don't actually use magic, just create substances that alter something's outward appearance."

I nod in understanding then query, "Then what is a warlock?"

He bites his lip and answers, "A warlock is the offspring of a mortal woman and a demon. Warlocks are always born males, because we take after the more powerful of our parents, which are our fathers. Shortly after we are conceived, our fathers return to the depths of hell, leaving our mothers to care for us on their own. We can use magic because of our demon heritage, and there are no restrictions as to what our magic can achieve, as long as we think about it the right way. Unfortunately, using magic drains us of energy, but the older and stronger we are the more magic we can use. Warlocks are extremely similar to witches. Witches are the offspring of mortal men and demons, and are always born female."

I do not hesitate before asking, "If there are demons, there must be angels, right?"

He laughs before adding, "Yes, there are, though they rarely show themselves on earth. Angels live forever, and two angels cannot have a child. But the offspring of a mortal and an angel are called Nephilim. Nephilim are extremely strong, but cannot use magic or live extended lives as we warlocks and witches do. Nephilim can only live as long as a normal human, whereas warlocks and witches can live forever."

I look him straight in the eyes and question, "What is Mauritius?"

He pulls a hand through his spiky hair and replies, "Mauritius is an association for warlocks. We go out into the world and search for young warlocks who do not know of their heritage or powers. We find them and bring them back to the headquarters, where they are trained. Once trained, they are obliged to serve the Mauritius, going out to find other warlocks. I was discovered by the Mauritius when I was only fourteen years old. The warlock who found me and trained me, my guide, was named Crozet. When I had finished my training, I had to work for the Mauritius, though I enjoyed it, so I stayed longer than others. I have been a guide for over fifty warlocks. I recently left the company after finding out some horrible truths about what they really do."

Curious, I inquire, "What do they really do?"

Ceylon shakes his head and sighs, "Alas, I cannot tell you. When I was taken in by the Mauritius, I signed a contract stating that I would never tell any outsiders of any secrets about the company. The contract was magic, so even if I did want to tell you, I literally couldn't form the words, no matter how hard I try."

I nod slowly, showing my understanding, but am secretly burning with curiosity. "So you say you speak thirty different languages. How can you know that many?"

He smiles cheekily before stating, "I lied."

I laugh and retort, "I _knew _you couldn't know that many!"

His smile grows broader and he admits, "Yes, I lied. I _actually _know thirty seven."


	5. Chapter 5

I lay on my back, on a soft bed of grass. From between the dark emerald leaves, millions of stars wink at me. It seems as though they have been randomly scattered, thicker in some places than others.

I roll my head to the side to see Ceylon sitting by the stream, his bare feet in the crystalline water. I pull my sword in closer to my body. I still don't trust this mysterious stranger, even though he has done nothing to deem himself untrustworthy.

Sensing my movement, Ceylon wearily comments, "Leave it alone, sweetheart. Both of us know that you have no idea how to use that thing."

I loosen my grip on the weapon and sit up. Ceylon turns his head to look at me, and I notice that a lock of black hair has fallen across his face. His eyes gleam in the light of the full moon, and I realise that the emotion that dwells within them is…sadness.

"Ceylon, I don't understand," I begin cautiously "are you my guide, sent by the Mauritius?"

He inhales a slow breath, and turns his head back to the stream.

"No," he admits tiredly "I no longer work for them. I came to find you because…well, let me start from the beginning." He shifts uncomfortably, still facing away from me.

"When I was working for the Mauritius, they sent me on many… 'missions', so to speak. On my last mission, something went terribly wrong. The young warlock I was guiding, Seth was his name, couldn't cope with the truth of what he was. He disappeared, and I couldn't find him. I searched for months, but eventually gave up, assuming he had killed himself. When I returned to the company to deliver the news, they were outraged. They had been planning something very important for me, the most important mission they had ever had. Of course, the mission was given to someone else.

"I was curious to see what could possibly be so high profile, so I investigated. The mission was to find a girl. It seemed simple enough, nothing I hadn't done before. But then I read into it a bit more. This girl was not a witch, nor was she a warlock. She was something else. She was believed to possess a colossal amount of power, more than anyone else. She had a mortal mother, and her father had been from hell, however, he was not a demon. He was a fallen angel, cast out from heaven for his dastardly deeds. Many know the tale of Lucifer, the former archangel, sent spiralling out of heaven to rule hell. But little know of his younger brother, Abaddon. He followed in his brothers footsteps, and was also exiled from heaven. He ruled by his brothers side in hell, his second in command. But, like Lucifer, Abaddon was power-hungry, and this was not enough. He killed his brother and took his place as the devil.

"This Girl was Abaddon's daughter. Nobody knew exactly what she was. She wasn't a warlock or witch, for her father was not a demon, though she was not Nephilim either, as her father had lost all godliness when he fell from the heavenly realms. The Mauritius wanted her, in fact, they _needed _her. They were afraid that if they did not control her, one day she could destroy them. "Soon after my discovery, I left. I knew what I had to do. I set out to find this girl, to protect her from the Mauritius. I travelled the world, scouring ever corner of the globe. I had no luck in finding her…until recently."

Ceylon turned his head to look me in the eye. I knew what he was going to say, but I still wasn't prepared when he announced, "Ashby, that girl is you."


	6. Chapter 6

A wave of nausea overwhelms me and I shut my eyes. I dig my nails into the ground, welcoming the pain as my fingertips hit rock.

I can hear Ceylon calling my name, asking if I'm okay, and my heart pounding in my chest, its rhythm growing faster with each ragged breath. I can barely form a thought. I want to deny it, I want to be able to think that it isn't true, that this must be a mistake, but I can't.

I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder, and once again I hear Ceylon's voice. I manage to take one deep breath, then another.

After what could have been minutes or hours, I pull my hands out of the dirt. Curling my knees up to my chest, I bury my face in my hands, and I'm almost surprised when I feel that my face is wet. I let the tears roll out of my eyes and down my hands. I can hear more clearly now, and the pounding in my chest has died down a little.

"Ash, don't cry," I hear Ceylon beg as he puts an arm around my shoulders. I lean back into him and let him cradle me against his warm chest. In his arms, surrounded by the scent of exotic flowers and pastry, I can almost forget what he just told me. I take advantage of my almost-clear mind, and let myself fall asleep.

I wake up to the melody of birds chirping high above me. My eyes flutter open to see a canopy of emerald leaves, and I remember where I am. The snap of a twig rings through the morning air and I sit up with a start, fumbling for my sword.

"Ouch," yelps Ceylon as my hand wraps itself around the hilt. I relax when I realise that he was the one who made the sound.

Rubbing my eyes groggily I ask, "Are you okay? What happened?"

He glares at me accusingly and massages his temples.

"What! What did _I_ do? I was asleep!" I exclaim in confusion.

He exhales sharply and shakes his head, his unspiked hair flopping over his eyes.

"It doesn't matter. It wasn't your fault, you didn't know you were doing it." He mumbles, as he walks over to me.

I stare up at him in open confusion, my eyebrows raised and whisper, "_What did I do?_"

"You…well, you hit me. Sort of. More of a slap actually. It really hurt," he added with an expression of mock pain.

I pushed a lock of grey hair from my eyes and asked incredulously, "_When_?"

He raised his eyes brows in disbelief before answering, "Just then! You know, when I said 'Ouch', and you asked me if I was okay."

"I didn't lay a hand on you!" I exclaimed, rising to my feet.

"You didn't have to. You slapped me in my head. You know, mentally." explained Ceylon, walking back towards the stream, his boots leaving no imprint on the grass.

I blinked as him in sheer confusion and wondered aloud, "Mentally?"

"Yeah. Some of us can do it, but only a select few. Seth could do it. He used to do it by accident all the time, like when he was scared." He answered casually as he gathered twigs to assemble a fire.

"Sorry," I mumbled meekly, "I didn't know I could use magic."

Ceylon stopped when I said that, and turned to look at me.

"It's not magic," He said, "It's kind of like a psychic thing. I don't know why, but some people can just do it. I'm not surprised that you can, your father being who he is."

I bit my bottom lip at the memory of last night and what Ceylon told me. I _really_ didn't want to think about that right now.

Pushing thoughts of fallen angels from my mind I said brightly, "So, how about you teach me how to use this sword?"

He smiled wolfishly and his eyes twinkled with humour as drew a long, silver sword from his belt. He chuckled darkly and remarked, "Gladly," before swinging his weapon through the air, straight towards my head.


	7. Chapter 7

Without even knowing what I'm doing, I instantly drop into a crouch and the blade whizzes over my head, missing me by only millimetres. I quickly roll to my left, narrowly avoiding another blow. _What the hell is he doing! _I barely have time to process the thought when I sense another swing. I leap to my feet and jump backwards, just in time to avoid being disembowelled, but the tip of Ceylon's blade tears my black T-shirt and opens up a shallow cut across my stomach. I yelp, more in fear than in pain, and stagger back a few more steps, only to trip on a protruding tree root. The air rushes out of my lungs as I hit the hard earth, and the sky swirls above me. I can hear Ceylon approaching, and my hands fumble along the earth next to me, looking for something, _anything, _to hurl at Ceylon. Relief surges through me when my fingertips brush the hilt of my sword, but soon disappears when I realised that it is just out of reach. I reach out for it in vain, but it's too late. Ceylon looms above me, a cruel smile plastered on his face. Just then, as Ceylon prepares himself to take another swing at me, I have an idea. I kick Ceylon with my left foot, my toe connecting with one of the sheathed blades hanging from his belt. It arcs through the air, spiralling towards my face. Ceylon rushes to take a swing, at the dagger or at my face, I'm not sure. Just before both of the weapons hit me square in the face, I reach out with my right hand, catching the dagger and holding it rigid. A mighty clang resounds through the air as Ceylon's blade meets his dagger, now in my hand. Ceylon freezes above me in shock. He obviously didn't expect that. I take advantage of that moment to kick him savagely in the gut with both of my feet. I knock him to the side and he chokes, gasping for the air I pushed out of his lungs. I scramble to my feet, the dagger still clutched in my right hand, and grab for my sword with my left. Ceylon is getting up, still wheezing. I switch the blades, and now I have my sword in my proffered hand. I rush at him, swinging my sword towards his head, and steel meets steel as he parries my blow. He is fast. _Really_ fast. Within seconds, he has used the tip of his sword to flick both of the weapons out of my hands. He brings his sword up, and its tip rests on my collarbone. A single bead of blood escapes me as it gently pierces my skin. Knowing that I am helpless, I raise my hands in submission. For a moment, we both stand there, breathing heavily.

He nods quickly in my direction and states, "You're good." Before dropping his sword and taking a step back.

My heart pounds in my chest, so loud that I am sure he can hear it. I gape openly at him in undisguised shock.

"What the _hell_ was that?" I cry, still standing where he left me. He had turned away and was walking back towards the pile of sticks he had been gathering before he attacked me.

"You wanted to practice. So we practiced." He says coolly, still not facing me as he gathers twigs in his arms.

"Practice!" I am nearly shouting now, unable to believe what he said. "You could have killed me! You almost chopped me in half!" I add, gesturing to the cut on my stomach.

"Now, now. There no need to overreact. I would have stopped the blow if I thought I was going to kill you. And besides, you weren't exactly going easy either." He says in a relaxed tone, grimacing as he feels his ribs.

"I think you might have broken one," he mumbles, staring at his chest.

"Only because I thought you were trying to behead me!" I retort, but I am already starting to calm down.

Ceylon just shakes his head and walks back over to me, eyeing my stomach.

"Here, let me take a look at that," he says quietly, lifting up the hem of my shirt so he can get a better look. I suddenly feel self-conscious as he inspects the cut. I have pale skin and my stomach is completely untoned. I try to stop myself from blushing as he runs his ebony hands over my skin. The pain recedes when he puts his hand over my cut, and I gasp in shock when I look down to see my cut stitching itself back together. _Magic,_ I think as Ceylon takes a step away from me, his hand splotched with my blood. He surprises me again when he places his hand over my heart, but then realise that he must be healing the cut on my collar bone. He steps away from me, his face completely expressionless, and then wanders toward the stream. I follow him, and watch him wash my blood off his hands. Tendrils of crimson curl away from his hands as the stream flows past his fingers, eventually diffusing into nothing.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," he says gently, "I was just trying to teach you something."

"No, it's okay," I say, surprising myself with my sudden calmness "I get what you were doing. And it did help, so thank you."

He stands up, regarding me with solemn eyes, then looks away.

"Let me take a look at your ribs," I gently command, carefully taking off his spangled vest. He nods and slides off his peasant shirt, wincing slightly as he lifts his arms. I bite my lip when I see his chest, trying not to blush. He has toned muscles, and a smooth six-pack pack.

"Admiring my abs?" he jokes, and I swat him on the arm. He starts to laugh, but then winces again. I place my hand gently over his ribs, noticing how my pale skin stands out against his. I press his skin, carefully, feeling for where his ribs are. He cries out in pain when I press for his third rib, and it isn't there. Well, it is there, but it's broken.

"Sorry," I murmur "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You can heal it, you know. Just like I healed your cut," He comments softly "I mean, I could do it, but I want you to try."

I shake my head and mumble, "I don't know how. And besides, I really don't want to hurt you any more."

"Just try," he said "Put your hand over it, then close your eyes and think '_heal'_. That's all you have to do."

I follow his instructions, gingerly placing my fingers back on his chest. I shut my eyes tight and command '_heal'_. There is a faint click and Ceylon sighs in relief.

"You did it," he remarks. I _did _do it, but now I feel weak and tired. I lean against his bare chest, and he wraps an arm around me to steady me.

"Easy there," he mumbles as I sag against him, but makes no move to push me away. I look up into his dark eyes, and suddenly realise how close we are. I'm sure that I'm blushing, but all he does is look down at me with his beautiful, dark eyes. _Whoa, where did that thought come from _I think to myself. I'm about to step away when he leans in closer to me.

"Ash," he whispers, stirring a lock of my grey hair.

Then he leans into me, pressing his lips gently to mine.


	8. Chapter 8

I stand there, frozen in shock, and it feels like time has stopped. His soft lips taste of honeydew, and I am overwhelmed by his sweet scent. Cupping my face in his hands, he leans in closer and kisses me more passionately. I start to bring my arms up, to wrap them around his neck, but suddenly realise what I am doing. I tense, resting my hands on his chest and gently pushing him away. Our lips part and I look away, resting my forehead on his chest. His arms are still wrapped around me, and I can feel his gaze on me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, "I can't…I just…can't."

I hear a sharp intake of breath, and Ceylon loosens his grip on me. He places one long finger under my chin, lifting it up so I have to look him in the eyes. My cheeks flush in embarrassment as he tucks a stray curl behind my ears.

"Why not?" he replies softly, and I can see the confusion swirling in his eyes.

I take a step away from him, so I won't be distracted and say, "Because I'm thirteen, and you're like three hundred years older than me. Plus, I barely know you. It's just too weird."

"Two hundred and eighty seven," he corrects, "and when you get to be as old as I am, age stops mattering."

I shake my head, taking another step backwards.

"But I'm not as old as you are. I'm _thirteen years old. _I'm just not ready for this." I say in exasperation, and take yet another step backwards.

I see panic flash in Ceylon's eyes and he tries to reach out for me. I wonder why, but then realise that I'm right on the edge of the stream.

I lose my balance, my feet slipping in the mud. I squeal as I fall backwards into the icy water. Pain shoots through my skull as my head connects with the hard pebbles of the creek bed, and then everything goes black.

The first thing I am aware of is that my feet are freezing. Freezing and wet. A dull throbbing echo's through my mind, almost as if it is a memory. As I come into consciousness, I can feel that I'm lying on something hard. I open my eyes slowly, and the world swirls around me, as if I'm on a merry go round. I blink a few times to clear my vision, and see a pale blue sky, dotted with the peachy clouds of sunrise.

Rolling my head to the side, I notice that I'm lying on a large outcrop of rock. Past the surface of grey stone, I see the pastures I had been walking on a few days earlier. _How did I get here?_ I think as a suck in a breath of crisp morning air.

I tilt my head the other way, and see the coals of a small fire glowing dully just a few feet away from me. On the opposite side of the fire, Ceylon sleeps soundly, his coal black hair falling over his closed eyes. I notice my leather jacket and sword are in a pile at his feet, as well as his own weapons belt and assortment of blades.

I sit up slowly, leaning back on my hands. I'm still wearing my torn black T-shirt and faded blue jeans, but my brown leather boots are sitting a few yards away on the cool stone.

"I see our sleeping beauty is finally awake," comments Ceylon, humour sparkling in his eyes. I hadn't realised that he was awake, and now he is sitting cross legged on the opposite side of the fire.

"How long was I out?" I ask, feeling the back of my head where it hit the creek bed. There is no gash there, but I can feel that my hair is caked with dry blood.

"It's been two days," answers Ceylon gravely, "I healed your head straight away, but you didn't wake up. I was starting to get worried."

I purse my lips at the thought, and then nod.

"How did we get here?" I inquire, taking my hand away from my head and resting it in my lap.

"Yesterday, since you still hadn't woken up, I carried you here," He replies, "I would rather have stayed there, but it was way too dangerous to stay in one place for that long, especially out here in the open. It would be way too easy for the Mauritius to track us."

I nod again in understanding, and then slowly attempt to stand up. Ceylon moves around the fire and offers me a hand. I take it, and he hauls me to my feet. He continues to hold my hand until I have my balance, and then lets it go.

"If you want to clean yourself up, there a small spring just over there," He says brightly, gesturing to the other side of the outcrop.

I walk towards it carefully, still a little wobbly on my unused legs. From the edge of the rock I can see a clear spring. Steam billows off its surface, making little clouds in the air above. I notice that the air has the faint aroma of sulphur, so it must be remotely volcanic. The hot spring looks incredibly welcoming.

Glancing back at Ceylon I state, "I don't have any other clothes."

Ceylon grins broadly, and a set of neatly folded clothes appears in his hands. A few seconds later, the pile is topped with a fluffy white towel.

I laugh out loud in surprise in delight.

"How did you do that?" I ask, "Did you just close your eyes and think '_clothes_' or '_incredibly fluffy bath towel'_?"

He laughs at that, and then shakes his head.

"It's slightly more complex than that. Everything has to come from somewhere. For instance, this towel comes from a home ware store in Paris. It's called _le lin_."

"Wait, so you have to know where it comes from?" I ask in confusion.

"Yeah. That's why I travel so much; so I can see the world and all it has to offer. If I ever need anything, I just remember where I saw it, and then summon it from that location. You'll be able to do it one day, but at the moment I don't think you've seen enough of the world."

Impulsively, I close my eyes and think of the bathroom at home. I focus on the small bar of soap sitting by the sink. In my mind, I sort of pull it towards me, summoning it. I open my eyes again to see the small bar of soap sitting in my palm.

"Very good," praises Ceylon.

Happy with my small achievement, I turn my attention back to him.

"But, if you summoned that towel from the store, isn't that stealing?" I say, curiosity colouring my voice.

The corner of Ceylon's mouth rises in a half smile and he states, "I prefer to think of it as permanently borrowing. But if it bothers you that much, next time I go past the store I can slip a twenty under the door."


	9. Chapter 9

Warmth engulfs me as I lie in the hot spring. The air smells more strongly of sulfur over here, but I don't mind. I sink down further into the water so that it's up to my chin. A few bubbles bob along the surface, the colours in them swirling madly. After washing myself with the bar of soap I summoned, I simply lay in the warm water, letting my muscles relax.

At least ten minutes go by before I remember to wash the blood out of my hair. Wading over to the edge of the spring, I grab the dismal bar of soap and start rubbing it through my ashy hair. I feels good to be clean and relaxed. This is probably the first time I have been relaxed since my mother's death.

After rinsing the soap and blood out of my hair, I clamber out of the hot spring and wrap the towel around myself.

Once I'm dry, I wander over to where my new clothes are. I have no idea what they look like, but knowing Ceylon, they could be anything. As I inspect the pile, panic rises through me as I wonder if Ceylon remembered to get underwear. I sigh with relief when I see that he did, but that relief is soon replaced by embarrassment.

Sitting before me is the most fancy, frilly, and expensive looking set of underwear I have ever seen. I groan inwardly as I realise that I will have to wear them because I have nothing else. I clench my teeth as I put them on, and then go back to inspecting the clothes.

I pull on a pair of what appear to be black skinny jeans, but are actually made of soft leather. I'm almost surprised to find that they fit me perfectly, but then again, Ceylon _is_ a warlock.

I find a black cotton T-shirt, identical to my old one, minus the tear in the front, and slip it on quickly. I almost laugh out loud when I see the last item in the pile is a red vest that matches Ceylon's. I shake my head in wonder as I shrug it on. It's almost identical, with the delicate stitching and all, except mine is cropped short, so it ends just below my ribs.

I comb through my hair with my fingers and then pull it back into a tight braid that falls just past my shoulders, tying it off with a black ribbon that Ceylon had given me.

I sit down on the grass next to the spring and pick at the stitching on my vest. I jump when something appears at my side. I scoot away from it, but then realise that it's just a pair of boots. The boots are similar to Ceylon's, but without any decorative chains. Instead they have unnecessary buckles twined around them.

I pull on the pair of white cotton socks that were stuffed inside them, followed by the boots themselves. It takes me at least ten minutes to tie the laces and adjust the buckles so they sit comfortably, and when I'm done I let out a relieved sigh.

"And so she finally emerges," remarks Ceylon as I traipse back to the rock, "I thought you had drowned and I was going to have to give you mouth to mouth."

"Ha," I bark, "You wish jellyfish."

"Jellyfish?" Ceylon inquires, "Are you calling me flabby?"

"It's a figure of speech," I say dryly, and Ceylon stares at me critically.

"I am not flabby," He says, a sparkle of humour in his voice.

I shake my head and waltz over to where my sword is lying on the ground. As I'm buckling it around my waist, Ceylon taps me on the shoulder. I turn to face him and raise my eyebrows in question.

"I think you should take this," he advises, holding out the silver dagger that I had used a couple of days earlier when I was fighting him. I take it in my right hand, testing its weight. Its hilt fits perfectly in my hand, and the transparent gemstone at the base of the hilt flashes then turns a solid black.

Ceylon bites his lip, looking nervous and disappointed.

"What?" I ask, curious about his sudden change in mood.

He rakes a hand through his hair, spiking it up before replying, "That's called an _Arget Mithrim_. They are ancient weapons, and can only be made by those with both angel and demon blood. Faeries generally make them, but there are a few exceptions. The gem on the end is called a _Barka. _It changes colours depending on what race their wielder is. For Nephilim, it's gold, for witches, it's purple, for faeries, it's green, and for warlock's, it's blue. The only reason they turn black is if their wielder has more bad than good in them."

I look him in the eyes, swallowing past the lump that had formed in my throat.

"Does that mean I'm evil? Is it because of my father?" I ask, hoping he will say no.

"Not necessarily. For example, if a goodhearted vampire or werewolf holds it, it will still turn black. It isn't about your personality, Ash; it's about your soul. Even if a werewolf or vampire has a kind personality, they still have a black soul," He finishes, looking at me darkly.

Placing a hand on my shoulder he adds, "You're a really kind person Ash, but because of who your father is, you will always have a black soul."


	10. Chapter 10

A warm breeze stirs my hair as Ceylon and I make our way through the seemingly endless fields. He says that there is a village not too far away, but it's impossible to tell. It's so peaceful out here in the meadows; all I can hear is the rhythmic swishing of the long grass as we trudge through it. Ceylon hasn't spoken a word since we started walking, and neither have I. I pull the Arget Mithrim from my belt and watch as the Barka turns black. Around the stone is a network of intricate runes that I can't read. I run my finger over them, and as I touch each one, it glows.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Says Ceylon, throwing a glance in my direction. I nod in reply and we continue walking in silence. I grow suddenly dizzy, and the world tilts. I stumble over my own feet and Ceylon grabs my arm to steady me. At his touch, the dizziness goes away instantly.

"Are you okay?" He asks, concern colouring his voice.

"Fine," I mumble, "just tripped on a rock."

Ceylon purses his lips and stares at me in concern before nodding and walking on.

By noon, I can see smoke rising in the distance. Panic rises up in me and I stop dead in my tracks. Ceylon's laughter interrupts my panic and I glare at him.

"It's a village, Ash. Don't look to terrified. The smoke is from a chimney." He laughs.

I direct my eyes back to the smoke and realise that it is rising up in thin pillars, as if from many chimneys. Relief washes over me and Ceylon laughs again at my silliness.

"When we get to the village I'll find us a room at an Inn. You can go to the market and get us some food." Says Ceylon, still smiling.

"How will I know which Inn we are staying at if I'm shopping?" I inquire.

"There is only one Inn in the village, and it's hard to miss. It's right in the centre." He replies casually.

"How do you know so much about a village you've never been to before?" I ask, throwing him a confused look.

He winks at me and replies in a strong-but-fake English accent, "Welcome to the world of magic, sweetheart."

The sweet tune of a wooden flute drifts through the warm air. A boy sits cross legged on a barrel outside the entrance of the inn. His dusty blonde hair falls in ragged locks over his pale eyes and his fingers move quickly over the flute, creating a bitter-sweet tune. As I approach, he lifts his eyes to mine, but doesn't stop playing. They are such a pale shade of blue that they are almost white, but they somehow remind me of storm clouds. When I get closer, I realise that he is older than I first thought. He would probably be around fifteen years old, but he is thin. Not an under-fed type of thin, but he is slim and well-muscled. I take a deep breath and push open the heavy wooden door of the inn. In side it's foggy with cigarette smoke and there are people milling around everywhere. I see a group of men crowded around a small round table with cards in their hands, all of them with blank expressions. Another group are hanging about a green pool table with cues in their hands. A boy of about sixteen years of age, with hair that's so dark it gives midnight a run for its money and eyes that could penetrate the soul, leans over the table, positioning his cue. In a single strike, he sinks at least six balls. He stands up straight in triumph, and the other men all grunt in annoyance. He must be winning. As I watch, he turns to face me with a sardonic grin on his face. He looks oddly familiar. He saunters over to me, and I attempt to take a step away, but I'm stopped dead by an empty table.

"The names Franklin," he says, thrusting out a hand for me to shake, "and it's a pleasure to meet you."

I nervously give him my hand and he shakes it thoroughly.

"My name's Ash," I mumble

"You're not from around here are you?" he asks, with the slightest hint of a French accent.

I shake my head nervously and search through the crow for Ceylon.  
"You looking for somebody?" he inquires, tilting his head slightly.

"Yes, I'm here with a friend. Have you seen him?" I question him.

"Tall and black and kinda gay?" he says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"That would be the one. Do you get visitors often, being all the way out here?" I ask him, trying to make conversation.

"Only the traders. Most people don't even know we exist." Franklin says, leaning slightly closer to me.

"Who's that boy outside? The one with the"- he cuts me off.

"Eyes?" Franklin finishes.

"Yeah, that one."

"He's my cousin, Crewe. He's not exactly…all there, if you know what I mean," He says, then drops his voice, "Strange things happen around him. If I were you I would stay away…he can be…dangerous."

I grip the table behind me tightly, and Franklin seems to notice.

"Don't be frightened, Ash. Nothing will happen to you. I'm sure you'll be fine," he reassures me, "hey, how about I get you a drink?"

I was saved from reply by Ceylon.

"There you are, Ash. I've been looking for you. We should go," he finishes, glaring at Franklin and pulling an arm around me protectively. As he pull me upstairs towards the accommodation, I glance back over my shoulder and see Franklin, with a look of something like hurt in his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

Our room is rather small, with two single beds, a small dressing table, and a nightstand. The parquet floors are dusty, and the room obviously hasn't been used for a while.

"Good news," starts Ceylon, "The room was free. The owner was just delighted to have visitors to the village."

I nod at him and set myself down on the edge of a bed.

"Ash, I've been thinking. The owner said we can stay as long as we like, and this village is really under the radar. I was thinking, maybe we could"-

"Stay," I cut him off, "Sure, I'm cool with that."

He nods to himself and says "You should get some rest."

I wake to the sound of birds chirping cheerfully. Warm light is pouring through the open window, and the air has the distinct scent of spring. I roll over to see that Ceylon is already gone, his bed made. I lie there for I while, clutching the soft sheets and listening to the distant laughter of children. This is such a peaceful place.

I slip out of bed and wander over to the nightstand, where Ceylon has left some clothes for me. I splash my face with cool water and dry it off with a small hand towel. I unfold the small pile on the counter, and am surprised to see that it's a dress. It is white with a delicate floral pattern, and it suits my figure well. I top off the look by letting down my hair. It falls in delicate grey waves around my face. All that I need now are some shoes. I notice a pair of flats left by the end of my bed. They are a shade of grey that matches my hair and have the same pattern of flowers as my dress.

Dressed in my new outfit, I feel oddly girly. I glance at my reflection in the basin, the rippling water distorting my face. It's so lovely here. So peaceful and so warm. I think of the boy on the barrel, his eyes like dark lightning. The way his fingers moved so effortlessly over the flute, creating a tune both haunting and sweet. The way that Franklin had said he was dangerous. Something about Crewe was not right. Pushing the dark thoughts from my mind, I make my way over to the small window. Outside I can see the rooftops of many little shacks, and beyond that, open fields filled with yellow daisies.

I lay on the lawns of the town square, my back propped against the trunk of a tall tree. Sweet jams and fruit are sold at small stands at the edges of the square, and people mill around, chatting and laughing. Many houses face into the square, all with grand doors and stone steps leading to them. This must be where the wealthy live. The houses are squared off at the top, with flat rooves. Two young boys, no older than the age of eight play on the lawns next to me. They pretend to be knights, sparring with invisible swords. A circle of young girls sit on the lawns not too far away, singing songs unknown to me and weaving daisies into their hair. Bees buzz lazily, not intending harm to anyone. I twirl a lock of my silver hair around my finger, humming to myself. I haven't seen Ceylon all day, and I have no idea where he could be, but I'm not bothered. The soothing sound of a guitar floats through the air, along with a gentle masculine voice. I turn around to see who is playing it, and am surprised by what I see. Franklin is sitting on the steps of one of the houses surrounding the square, a guitar in his arms. I can't hear the words to the song, but his voice is lovely. Almost as if he knows I'm watching, he looks up, his eyes meeting mine. He stops singing and rests his guitar on the steps. My face flushes with heat when he stands up and starts wandering towards me. I glance up at him as he stands a few metres away from my feet.

"What is a lovely lady like you doing sitting on the ground?" He asks, his voice softer and gentler than I remember.

"Nothing really, just enjoying the sunshine," I say cheerfully, flashing him my most pleasant smile.

"Enjoy it while it lasts. You should see winter here, the snow is gorgeous," he enthuses, his dark eyes seeming to glitter.

"I think I probably will. See winter, I mean. Ceylon and I were thinking of staying here a while, taking a break," I tell him, his face lighting up and a smile spreading across his handsome face.

"Well, in that case, would you do me the honour of letting me show you around?" He asks, bowing slightly and offering me a hand.

I look at him a moment, contemplating the nature of his question. He doesn't seem to be any threat, just a gentleman.

I take his hand and he pulls me easily from the ground, as if I weight no more than a feather.

"Shall we?" he suggests, offering me his arm.

I take his arm by the elbow and let him lead me away.


End file.
